


Just a Spot on the Map of the World

by Squeaky



Series: I'll Point You Home [2]
Category: Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, BAMF Natasha Romanov, Clint Barton & James "Bucky" Barnes Friendship, Clint Barton & Steve Rogers Friendship, Clint Feels, Clint Needs a Hug, F/M, Hurt Rebecca Barnes, Natasha Feels, Natasha Needs a Hug, Natasha Romanov Has Issues, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Soulmates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-16
Updated: 2014-11-16
Packaged: 2018-02-25 15:49:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2627345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Squeaky/pseuds/Squeaky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After nine months of painful waiting, Clint finally meets his soulmate! But Natasha's scared and runs, and what the hell is Clint supposed to do now? </p><p>Luckily for them both however, Steve's got a heart of gold and Bucky's got a map.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just a Spot on the Map of the World

**Author's Note:**

> As with my first fic:  Following the Map that Leads to You this fic is inspired by [ Words on my skin, love in my heart](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1759835/chapters/3762741) by amusewithaview. Go check it out.
> 
> (You don't have to read the first fic in the series to understand this one - but you might like it.)
> 
> As always, massive thanks, appreciation and love to my beta [ Taste_is_Sweet ](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Taste_is_Sweet/pseuds/Taste_is_Sweet). She is twelve kinds of awesome.
> 
> The title is lovingly borrowed from [ Map of the World ](https://search.yahoo.com/search?fr=mcafee&type=B211US0D20141019&p=map+of+the+world+plain+white+t%27s) by Plain White T's.
> 
> * * *

The day that Clint got his soulmarks, he bought a case of beer and went to Sam and Steve’s and proceeded to get drunk. They laughed and ate pizza and Sam made fun of him and Clint used Steve’s map to discover that his soulmate might actually be living in New York. 

And then Clint went home to his tiny shit-box of a dorm-room and hit the wall so hard that he couldn’t draw his bow for a week.

_You’re a mess!_ ; his soulmarks said. The dark, easy scrawl was sprawled across his lower right ribs, impossible to miss. Like a big, fat neon sign telling the whole world what a loser he was. Like no matter how hard he tried, or how much effort he put into trying to get his life together, the truth was written on his skin. He was a mess. All the way down.

It _hurt,_ like he’d been pierced right through his heart with one of his own arrows. He hadn’t hurt this bad since his older brother had beat him unconscious and left him in a snow-bank to die. 

And yet, he still wanted to meet her more than anything. Because even if she could totally tell what a fucked-up mess of a human being he was, she would be his soulmate. And that meant she _had_ to stay with him, right? 

And even though his dad, Phil, was solid, Clint thought it might be kind of nice to have at least one other person who would have to stay with him, no matter what a mess he was. 

“I promise I’ll try really hard to be better for you,” he vowed to her in the dark. And maybe if he tried hard enough, she might love him. 

Maybe. At least a little.

* * *

Natasha stood in the bathroom of the emergency department of _Maria Stark Memorial Hospital_ with her shirt pulled up to just under her bra, looking at her brand-new soulmarks.

She’d had to leave the apartment she’d been subletting because her roommate’s boyfriend had hit on her the second his girlfriend had left for class. She’d thrown all her possessions into her backpack and left, even though it was the twentieth of December and this winter was cold. But she’d learned quickly after she’d had to run away for the second time that she should live her life as if she’d need to leave at any moment. She had just the amount of clothes necessary for comfort and warmth, a few toiletries, and her books for school. If it fit in her backpack, she’d keep it. Otherwise it got left behind. 

She’d come to the hospital because it was warm and safe and the security guards usually let a young women sleep on the benches in the Emergency Department without giving her too much of a hassle. She’d been doing it on and off since she was twelve, after all. Some of the guards even knew her by name. 

She felt her pulse flutter in her neck, her breath catching in small gasps as she looked at the new marks. Their edges were reddened and swollen, scrawled roughly over the bottom of her left ribs. It felt like there wasn’t enough air in the small bathroom, maybe not enough air in the _world_ to properly fill her lungs.

 _Breathe,_ she told herself fiercely. 

She’d been in worse situations than this. Much worse. There was no way she'd allow herself a panic attack over two words. 

Even though she'd heard those exact same words said to her a million times for as long as she could remember. And all the people who'd said it to her, all those _men_ , had never meant it as just a compliment. It was always meant as a prelude to something more. Something sinister; possessive. Nothing that she'd wanted with any of them.

Natasha pulled her shirt down and turned to lean against the sink, feeling the ache of unshed tears in her throat. She'd wanted her soulmarks to appear for as long as she could remember. Since the first time that her step-dad had tried to touch her and she’d bitten him and hidden under her bed, screaming, until her mother had come.

She'd dreamed of her soulmate being a knight in shining armour then. A man who’d be as handsome as he was kind, whose very presence would make her feel safe. 

A man who’d only touch her with gentleness and love. 

But that'd been years ago. Natasha’s mother had never believed her when she’d told her what her step-dad tried to do, no matter how many times he tried, no matter how many times Natasha had to fight him. So before she was twelve, Natasha had run away. She’d ended up a ward of the system, going from foster home to foster home, trying to find a place where she could feel safe and whole. 

A place where she’d be loved for herself, and not just because of how she looked. 

A place that now, at twenty years old, she wasn’t sure actually existed.

But she’d never given up hope. Not deep down. Not completely. Not until today, when her soulmarks had appeared and her worst fears had been confirmed. 

_You’re beautiful._ they said, proving once and for all that even the Universe thought she was nothing but a pretty face. That even her _soulmate_ wouldn’t actually love her for herself. 

Natasha let the tears fall.

* * *

Natasha edged closer to the nurses’ station in the emergency department. A grateful family member of a now-healed patient had just dropped off an entire tray of home-baked cookies, and Natasha’s mouth was watering just looking at them. 

First semester exams were over, and school was closed until the second week of January, which meant no leftover food to scrounge in the cafeteria nor comfy chairs to crash out on in the student lounge. There was always the library, but she’d been hit on too many times while trying to sleep there, and it no longer felt safe. 

She knew that there were shelters available, and soup kitchens and free meals given out at churches and synagogues and mosques throughout New York City, but she wasn’t feeling quite _that_ desperate. She’d only been homeless for about a week, and she was checking Craigslist every day for rooms-for-rent. Her grades for first semester would be good enough for her to keep her scholarship and she had a little money saved from her barista gig. She’d be fine. 

She scooted closer, pretending to be intently observing the front doors of the ED as if she was waiting for someone. 

“So, are you coming?” the big, blond nurse said to the other nurse sitting behind the desk.

“To what? Your party?” the sitting nurse said. She had brown hair and was pretty in a severe, well-controlled way. 

The big, blond man rolled his eyes, but his smile was kind. “Yes my party,” he said. “We’re holding a party to celebrate the holidays and as a kind of housewarming for Bucky at the same time.”

The brunette grinned. “You and Bucky moved in together? Congratulations!”

“Thanks, Maria.” He blushed. 

“So, when’s the wedding going to be?” Maria said, leaning towards him. “If he’s moved in already I’m sure he’ll put a ring on it pretty soon.”

To Natasha’s fascination, the man’s blush only deepened. “I’m not sure,” he mumbled. He rubbed the back of his neck. “So. The party?”

Maria made a dismissive gesture. “Of course I’m coming. Should I bring anything?”

“No.” The nurse shook his head. “We’ll have plenty of food. And lots of booze too. It’s going to be crowded though.” He grinned. “I think that Bucky’s invited everyone he knows from work.” 

Natasha’s ears perked up. A party with lots of people _and_ food? It would make it super-easy for her to sneak in, eat her fill, maybe even fill her pockets, and leave. It might even mean a few hours out of the cold and away from the hospital. Surreptitiously, she eyed the nurse out of the corner of her eye. His name tag showed his picture and the name ‘Steve,’ underneath it with his surname blocked out by stickers of ‘My Little Ponies’. Keeping his last name private was for safety reasons, Natasha knew, but the pony stickers made a hilarious contrast with Steve’s large and very masculine, physique. 

She'd seen Steve around the ED quite a lot over the last couple days that she’d been staying there, and he’d always seemed gentle and kind, despite his large size. He never seemed to get mad, either, just showing a fearsome disappointment in whomever was behaving so badly, which apparently worked just as well as yelling. 

Even if he caught her crashing his party, Natasha doubted that Steve would hit her or anything. Free food would be worth the risk, anyway.

She listened intently as Steve gave Maria the address, committing it to memory so she’d know where to go. The party was the next night and started at eight, so she decided to get there around nine-thirty, when people would be starting to get drunk, but hopefully not drunk enough that they’d want to grab her. Steve seemed nice. She didn’t want to have to hurt any of his friends. 

Steve and Maria had started another conversation about something, apparently about a patient as both of them were looking intently at Maria’s computer screen.

Natasha grabbed three of the cookies and slowly walked away, like she had all the time in the world.

* * *

Clint was not having a good time.

Well, okay, he _was_ , because he was at Steve and Sam’s--and now Bucky’s--apartment, eating and drinking and making merry with Steve and Bucky’s friends to celebrate both Bucky’s moving in and the holiday season, whichever. 

The music was great, the snack table was overflowing and the drinks were plentiful, and normally that was pretty much all Clint needed to have a great time. But tonight?--did not feel like a normal night. 

Firstly, Clint thought to himself as he sampled another chip-and-dip combo from the snack table, Sam wasn’t around to snark with, which totally dropped the ‘fun night’ quotient by, like, half. And secondly? 

Well secondly, he’d just dropped most of the dip from the chip-and-dip combo down the front of his shirt. 

“Well, shit,” Clint muttered, looking around for a napkin. 

There was none readily visible, so he shrugged and shoved the chip into his mouth, and then washed it down with the rest of his beer. 

And then his beer was empty, and that was also pouring out fun from his fun-bucket, so he meandered over to the bar to get another.

“Hey,” Bucky said to him as he saddled up to the bar. “What can I getcha?”

Bucky’s hair was mussed, his cheeks were flushed and he was grinning like his face was gonna split, and even though he was talking to Clint, his eyes were firmly glued on his boyfriend, Steve, who was chatting with a dark-haired woman over on the other side of the room. Clint thought that maybe that woman was actually Bucky’s sister Becca, who he may have met earlier in the night, but Clint hadn’t paid much attention after that because her first words to him were ‘nice to meet you,’ so whatever. 

Steve looked up at Bucky and the two of them smiled at each other, and suddenly Clint felt like he wanted to puke.

“Screw beer,” Clint said, even though Bucky hadn’t actually offered him one, “I think it’s time for tequila.”

That got Bucky to look at him. “Tequila? You sure pal? That stuff's pretty rough.”

“Maybe I want rough,” Clint muttered. 

“Haven’t you had a couple pops already?” Bucky leaned forward, resting his forearms on the bar, which was actually just the kitchen counter. Steve and Sam’s — and now Bucky’s — apartment wasn’t really big enough for a bar.

“That arm Stark made you is fantastic,” Clint said, because it totally was. 

Bucky grinned. “Thanks.” He raised his left hand, which was reflecting the multi-coloured Christmas lights that Steve and Clint had strung around the kitchen counter just that morning. “Stark did a bang-up job,” he said as he showed off the nearly perfect articulation of the joints. “I have enough sensation to pick up an egg and not crack it.”

“That’s fantastic,” Clint repeated, because it was fantastic. “And you know what else is fantastic? Tequila.”

Bucky’s grin turned into a frown. “That’s gonna hurt in the morning, pal.”

Clint shrugged, which caused him to slide down the front of the counter just a little. “Who gives a shit about hurting tomorrow?” He gave Bucky a toothy grin. “I know it’s not gonna hurt now!”

“Beer before liquor, never been sicker,” Bucky chanted, but he grabbed the bottle of tequila off the countertop anyway and flashed Clint a wide smile. “What the hell, it’s Christmas! You can get as blasted as you want.”

“Thanks, man.” Clint took the shot glass that Bucky passed him. “You are a prince among men. Steve’s totally lucky.”

Bucky’s eyebrows got really flirty. “Why? You want a piece of this?”

Clint broke out laughing, nearly sloshing his drink. He shot it back quickly to avoid any tragic liquor loss and Bucky refilled his glass so he shot that one back too, and then ended up coughing hard enough that Bucky started pounding between his shoulders with his metal arm. 

“Stop!” Clint cried, moving out of Bucky’s reach. “Fuck, that thing’s _hard._ It _hurts!_ ”

“That’s what he said,” Bucky replied immediately. 

And then he and Clint were laughing so loud that Steve actually came over to make sure they were okay. 

“Looks like you guys are having a good time,” Steve said, moving into the kitchen and rubbing Bucky’s shoulder. 

“I’m having a better time now,” Bucky purred, sliding into Steve’s touch. And then he was just sliding into _Steve,_ and then they were kissing like they’d fucking _invented_ it, and Clint left.

And that completely reminded him of what his original number two problem, which was probably problem number three because he’d already spilled dip on his shirt. Clint looked down to check. And tequila too, it turned out. Who knew that shit stained? 

_Dip._ Clint thought. _Chips!_ He wandered back to the buffet table and grabbed a handful of chips and rammed a couple in his mouth. 

He glanced back to the bar and then looked away again. Steve and Bucky had stopped kissing (thank God,) but were now laughing and talking quietly together, and even though the apartment was full of music and lights and people, it was like they were the only two guys in the room.

And that was it, right there. Clint shut his eyes for a moment as he chewed the remainder of his chips. 

He’d had his soulmarks for almost nine months, and there'd been no sign of his soulmate. 

And each day that passed without meeting her felt like it was breaking Clint’s heart just a little bit more. 

Maybe she knew, somehow. Maybe cosmically, she knew what a loser he was and was staying the hell away.

Nine months ago, when Clint got his soulmarks and before Steve found Bucky, Steve had told him about how to find your soulmate by using a map. You just thought about your soulmarks and then closed your eyes, and where your finger landed was where your soulmate would end up. 

He’d tried it immediate then, and it had shown she was in New York. Somewhere. But they still hadn’t met.

 _Maybe there’s a reverse map,_ Clint twisted his mouth. Some kind of way to make sure you _never_ found your mess of a soulmate and never had to be stuck with them. 

Clint took a deep breath, letting his chin drop to his chest. He wasn’t drunk enough for these thoughts. Or maybe he was too drunk. But either way he was going to get himself another tequila even if he had to pry it out of Bucky’s action-figure metal hand himself.

Feeling better with a concrete goal, Clint opened his eyes. 

There was a woman standing in front of him. Her hair was a deep red that looked like the colour of wine in the low light, and her eyes were the dark green of the bottle. Her mouth was lush, and instantly reminded Clint of rose petals. Her skin was nearly luminescent in its perfection. And he hadn’t even looked below her face. 

His soulmarks flared with sudden heat, and he slapped his hand over the bottom of his right ribs, surprised by the sensation.

Her huge green eyes blinked slowly at him, her left hand moving to rest over her lower left ribs. 

He swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry and his brain amazingly empty. 

Her gaze drifted from his eyes, down his body to his bare feet and back up again. Her incredible mouth quirked up into a smile. “You’re a mess.”

Clint smiled too. It was her. This stunning creature in front of him was _her._ He’d known she’d think he was a mess; it was written on his skin. But he’d never expected her to _smile_ when she said it. He’d expected her to be harsh; maybe mean, even cruel if he was honest. How could a mess like him expect better? 

He'd never expected her to look at him and say _You’re a mess!_ and still be kind. And she _was_ kind. He could see it in her eyes, in the curve of her smile. Her face was pretty for sure, but he could see that she was so much more than that. So he said the first thing that came to mind. “You’re beautiful.”

Her open expression immediately closed off, like the sharp slam of a door. The curve of her beautiful mouth suddenly became something severe and almost ugly.

“So, you wanna fuck me? That’s it?”

The anger in her words was so palpable that Clint actually took a step back. “No!” he said, feeling a bit sick about where her mind had immediately gone. He might be a mess, but he wasn’t like _that._ “No! I mean, I hardly know you. I _don’t_ know you, actually,” he corrected. “I don’t even know your name.”

Her expression became marginally less hostile, but her deep green eyes were still narrowed dangerously. “But I’m beautiful enough to fuck. Right?”

Clint drew his eyebrows down in confusion. He knew he’d had a bit to drink--Okay a lot to drink--but he knew his confusion wasn't because he was drunk. “Is this a test?”

She crossed her arms. Her strong, supple arms, ending in neat, graceful hands. “What if it was?”

Clint licked his lips, and was gratified to see that her eyes slipped to the movement before locking back on his. So she wasn’t entirely immune to him. But it didn’t change the fact that she was testing him, and he knew she’d leave if he failed. “Test or not,” he said, “either way, I’d hafta say ‘yes,’ and ‘no.’”

Her head tilted, and now it was her turn to look confused. “‘Yes and no?’” she repeated. “Why?”

“Because, obviously you’re beautiful.” He indicated her entire person. “But I think you know that already. And that’s the ‘yes’ part. The fact that anyone with eyes would see how beautiful you are, and probably want a piece of that.” Her expression hardened again. “But the ‘no,’ part,” Clint continued quickly, before she belted him with those graceful hands, “Is that, I’ve never wanted to ‘fuck’ anyone in my life. Have sex with, maybe. Make love to? Definitely. But fuck?” He shook his head. “No way.” 

She swallowed visibly. “Why not?”

“Because fucking,” Clint said, “is the lowest common denominator. You don’t need love, you don’t need respect--hell, you don’t even need someone’s _name_ to fuck them. And I guess…“ He took a breath, realizing that he was going to tell this total stranger, his _soulmate_ whom he didn’t even know, something that he’d never even told his dad. “I guess I’ve been treated like a tool, like a _thing_ with no heart, and no mind and--and no soul enough in my life that I’d never want to do that to someone else. No matter how beautiful they were.”

She touched her fingers to his wrist. “I know how that feels.”

“You do?” Clint blinked.

She nodded. “I’ve been treated like that, too.”

Clint felt a rage so immediate and black roar through him that he thought he was going to throw up. “Who did that to you?” he snarled. “Who fucking _touched_ you? I’ll kill them.” His hands were balled into fists. He could feel himself vibrating with fury.

“Who touched _you?_ ” she said instead. Her eyes were narrow green slits. “Maybe I want to kill _them._ ”

Clint blinked at the anger her heard in her voice. She _meant_ it. She fucking _meant_ that she wanted to kill the people who’d hurt him. _No one_ had ever offered him that before, and he totally couldn't understand it. But it made him feel-- 

And Clint laughed, and then this amazing woman, his _soulmate_ was laughing too, and it was like all the anger he’d been feeling dropped so suddenly and he felt so good it was like he was floating…

“Whoa, cowboy,” she said, and he found that his arm was draped over her shoulder. “Steady.”

“Sorry,” Clint said, and he realized it was harder than he’d remembered to make that ’s’ sound. And then he realized that the tequila shots had probably just slammed him in the head. “I think I’m drunk.” 

“I think you are,” she agreed, but the smile was still there. Still in her voice even though he was a big drunken mess that she had to help stand. She put her hand around his waist and hooked his belt to help him stay upright. That was great, because it was suddenly harder to get his feet to move in a straight line across the floor.

He stepped on one of the chips he might have dropped earlier. It crunched between his toes. 

“Where’s your room?” she asked, looking around. 

Clint wasn’t the tallest of guys, but she was tiny. Her hair tickled his nose, and smelled like winter. Then what she said kicked in and his eyes widened. 

“No!” he said, trying to pull away from her. Her grip, for such a small person, was mighty. “No! I meant what I said before! I don’t want a fuck—“

“Relax,” she said, and he could actually hear her eyes rolling. “I’m not going to jump you. I just think you need to sleep it off.”

“Well, good,” he said, although he wasn’t entirely sure that he was happy that she _didn’t_ want to jump him. Hopefully it was a bit of a struggle for her to say no? 

“I’m only struggling with your _weight!_ ” she laughed. And Clint realized he might have asked that out loud. “But yes,” she said, giving his waist a little squeeze with her wrist. “I do think you’re cute.”

“Cool.” He knew he was grinning like a maniac, but he didn’t care.

His soulmate (and wow, that was never gonna get old) half-carried, half-dragged him over to Sam’s room, pulled back the covers one-handed and dropped him on the bed. 

He fell back on the pillow and closed his eyes. The room was spinning in slow, clockwise circles around his head. “When you divide the circumference of a circle by its diameter, you get Pi.” It seemed important to tell her that.

“Math guy, huh?” she said as she deftly pulled off his belt. 

“Uh huh,” he said, eyes still closed. He wished he felt more excited about her taking his belt off, but all he felt was nauseous as the alcohol he’d drunk bathed his brain. “And history. And kinesiology. I like a lot of stuff.”

“What’s your major?” She sat him up enough to take off his t-shirt. He felt her hands lightly drift over his chest, and he smiled. “Clearly you like sports…”

“I have a scholarship.” He cracked his eyes open and grinned at her. “Archery.”

“I can tell.” She patted his shoulders. “You got the muscles for it.”

“Glad you like it.” He smirked.

“Is this your soulmark?” she asked, and he could feel her fingers skimming over the words-- _her_ words--on the edge of his ribs. 

“Yeah,” he said. He looked at her. “I think I met her tonight.”

She smiled, but then dropped her gaze, tucking the blanket around his legs. He turned onto his side, sighing contentedly. Sam was in D.C. visiting his family for the holidays, and he’d said that Clint could use his room. He’d even changed the sheets. It was nice.

“I should get you some water,” she said, and disappeared before Clint could even protest. 

A moment later she was gently shaking him awake. “Here.” She handed him a glass and a small yellow pill. “Steve says to take the vitamin B and drink all the water. It’ll help in the morning.”

“‘Kay.” Clint sat up and then gripped his forehead tightly as the room’s spinning increased. “Whoa.”

“You gonna puke?” she asked, her hand resting lightly on the back of his neck. Her fingers felt wonderful and cool. 

“No,” Clint said without shaking his head.

“Good.” She held the water out to him. “Now drink.”

He drank, and then swallowed the pill, and then drank some more until the water was all gone. 

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” Her smile was…Clint had no words for it. But he hoped he could see it every day for the rest of his life.

Slowly, carefully, so that she could move away at any moment, Clint raised his hand to her face. He saw her go still and her eyes darted to his hand, but she didn’t move away. 

Gently, he cupped her cheek, resting only his fingertips and the base of his palm against her skin. _I love you._ He wanted to say it so badly, but he knew she wouldn’t believe him; knew she wouldn’t understand how quickly and completely he’d fallen for her. “Thank you,” he said instead. “Thank you for helping me.” He didn’t even know her name.

He felt her jaw move as she swallowed. “Welcome,” she said, her voice was rough. She tolerated his touch for a few more moments, and then moved away, lifting up the blankets. “Now lie down. You need to get some sleep.”

Clint settled back onto the bed, the heavy exhaustion known only to the very drunk overtaking him. He saw her take a step back. 

He reached out for her, but stopped before his hand contacted her, keeping his fingers open. 

“Stay?” 

Her eyes widened in alarm. “I thought—“

He sat up and shook his head, ignoring how it made the world spin. “No,” he said quickly. “No. Not like that. Not _for_ that. I just…“ He looked down at the blanket. 

“You want me to stay? Just to, stay?” There was wonder in her voice. 

He met her gaze. “Yeah,” he said. “Just that.”

She blinked. He waited. 

“I don’t have anything with me.”

His grin was so broad it actually hurt. “You can use anything of mine you need.”

“Okay,” she sighed. “It’d be nice to sleep somewhere comfortable for one night.”

Clint frowned at that, wondering what she meant. But then she was sliding onto the other side of the bed, turned away from him and wrapping her arms around herself.

“Why aren’t you under the covers?” 

She turned around to look at him. “Because you’re under the covers.”

She was smiling when she said it, but he understood the concern in her words. She didn’t trust him yet, and it was shocking how painful that was to know even though he probably wouldn’t’ve trusted himself, either. “I don’t have to be. You can have them.” He started to lift them up and made to stand.

She laughed. “You have no socks and no shirt. You’ll freeze.”

“You have only a light shirt on,” he replied, quite reasonably he thought. “You’ll freeze.” 

“I’ll get my coat,” she said, like it was something people slept in all the time. 

Clint frowned. “No,” he said. “I’ll find you something.”

He stood, and it sucked, but he managed to gain his balance without puking and he only banged into the wall and Sam’s dresser and maybe the door before he found his bag and what he was looking for. 

“Here!” he said triumphantly as he handed her a thick, warm hoodie.

She stood and pulled it on and was immediately dwarfed by it. 

Clint laughed. “You look like you’re wearing a snuggly.” But his chest felt warm just seeing her in it.

“At least I’ll be warm enough.” She grinned wryly as she climbed back onto the bed. 

Clint maneuvered himself back under the covers and turned so he was lying facing her. “There’s so much I wanna ask you,” he said, but his eyes were already drifting closed. 

“Go sleep,” she whispered. So he did.

* * *

Natasha woke easily in the morning, feeling warmer and more rested than she had in a while. Quietly she crept out of the bed and used the bathroom, rinsing her mouth out with toothpaste until the sour taste of sleep was gone. 

She went back into the bedroom and eyed the door. It would be so easy for her to slip out without the man she’d met last night noticing. 

The man she’d met last night, her _soulmate_ \-- and wow, that was hard to adjust to -- was still sleeping. His ruggedly handsome face was relaxed, his mouth curved up in a small smile like he was dreaming about something good. 

And without truly thinking about what she was doing, Natasha slid back onto her side of the bed. 

One of his hands was tucked up under his pillow, the other stretched out towards her, as if he had been reaching for her while he slept. But even asleep he had respected her space and hadn’t tried to touch her. 

She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been with a man who hadn’t at least tried something with her. And yet she’d agreed to sleep in the same bed with this one, without even knowing his name. 

_Maybe he was just too drunk to try anything._ Natasha thought. But even as her mind formed the words she knew it was a lie. He wasn’t going to hurt her. 

At least she _hoped_ that was the case. She wanted it to be the case. So, so badly.

Careful not to disturb him she gently traced her fingers down the side of face, from his temple to his jaw, feeling the sculpted ridges of bone under taught skin. 

She smiled as she looked at him. She _liked_ him. She didn’t know anything about him beyond what little she’d learned the night before, but she had been charmed by his easy smile and his painful honesty. And the fact that his body was solid muscle didn’t hurt either. 

Oh yes, she liked him. And if she weren’t careful, she might find herself falling head-over-heels in love with this man she didn’t know. And that was probably the scariest thing she could ever think of. 

As if sensing her thoughts, he reached up and gently clasped her hand in his, firm enough that she could feel the pressure, but light enough that she could break his grip at any time. He was so thoughtful like that, even when he was half-asleep.

“Morning.” His smile lit up his eyes. They shone a pale green in the soft light of the room. 

“Morning.” She smiled back. She couldn’t help it. There was something about him that seemed to break down all her defenses. 

He linked their fingers together on the cover of the bed, solid but not possessive. “M’glad you stayed.” 

“Me, too,” she said honestly. 

He squeezed her fingers lightly; pure affection with no aggression at all and then gently released her. 

“My mouth,” he said slowly, “tastes like something horrible actually died on my tongue.”

Natasha laughed. “You might want to do something about that.”

“Yeah.” He grinned at her, crinkling the edges of his eyes and making her heart trip a little in her chest. “I need to brush my teeth and take a shower.” 

She stiffened at that, waiting for the leering ‘invitation’ that was going to sound like an order. 

He blinked. “Alone,” he said, those incredible eyes never leaving hers. “I’m going to take a shower alone.”

She swallowed. “Okay.”

“Look,” he said sitting up, slow enough that she could tell he was probably hung-over. “I like you. A lot, and I’m really happy that you’re my soulmate. But I will never, _ever_ make you do anything you’re not comfortable with. Okay?”

“Okay,” she said again.

“I mean it,” he said empathically. “I will never hurt you. I swear on my life.” He put his hand over his heart like he was making a vow. Which, as Natasha thought about it, he probably was. 

She nodded. Her throat suddenly too tight for her to speak. 

“Now,” he said, and his grin was back. “I’m going to get up and clean myself until I’m presentable enough for a lady, and them I’m going to take her out for breakfast. How does that sound?”

Natasha nodded again. 

“Great!” He bounded out of bed, and then staggered a little. Natasha sat up, ready to grab him if he fell, but he recovered his footing with astounding grace, considering how hung-over he must have been. “I’m okay!” He laughed, but one hand was pressed to his head. “Aww, tequila.” he muttered.

Natasha laughed with him. 

“You look great in my hoodie,” he said. 

She looked down at the sweater. It was grey with purple details and had a stain on the sleeve. “It’s purple.” 

His grin widened. “I like purple.” 

“Take your shower,” she said.

He mock saluted her, scooped his bag off the floor and went into the bathroom. 

Natasha sat on the bed for a while, listening to her soulmate bump around in the bathroom and the sound of water running as he turned on the shower.

She allowed her mind to imagine his strong, compact body under the rush of warm water for a few, pleasant seconds. But the thought was far too distracting and she forced it from her mind. Here she was, thinking about him _naked_ and she didn’t even know his name.

She didn't know him. The knowledge of that made the wonderful feeling of safety dissipate. She knew almost nothing about this man, except the impressions she had from their first meeting last night and this morning. She’d never before felt safe enough with a man to purposely crawl into bed with him, but there had been something about him that had made it seem like it would be…okay. And he’d proved her right so far. He hadn’t tried anything while she slept. 

And even if he had, she could’ve taken him down. Hard. Ten years of self-defense classes had given her the strength and the ability to protect herself. 

But she hadn’t even thought about needing to hurt him when she’d helped him to bed. Well, barely. 

He'd been so sweet and sincere when he was drunk. So different from the other she’d known. She’d spent her life trying to avoid drunk men because… She stopped her train of thought right there. She knew why. That was as far as her thoughts needed to go. 

But her soulmate had been gentle and kind. She couldn't remember the last time a man had treated her with such courtesy. At least nothing beyond fleeting, impersonal exchanges. 

But then again, she didn’t really go looking for guys to hang out with. So. 

Natasha took a deep breath. It was one thing for him to seem safe and harmless when he was drunk, but this morning he’d been awake, and alert and sober. 

But she wanted to trust him. Natasha rubbed her lower left ribs where her soulmark rested. The fact that their marks were mirror images hadn’t escaped her. If they hugged, their soulmarks would touch. 

She swallowed. She’d love to touch him, to hug him, to know how safe she’d feel in his arms…

Natasha closed her eyes, feeling tears burning. She wanted to trust him so much. He was her soulmate, the Universe had chosen him for her, and she wanted so badly to just give in and love him. 

But she couldn’t. No matter how wonderful he _seemed,_ no matter how kind or thoughtful or sweet he appeared, she couldn’t allow herself to trust him. Not yet, anyway, and maybe not ever. 

Quickly before he finished his shower, she left the bedroom and went down the short hallway to the main area of the apartment. 

She’d left her bag with all her stuff in one of the lockers at her university’s fitness facility, and that opened at nine during the holidays. She wasn’t sure what time it was, but by the way the light had slanted into the bedroom she assumed it was probably around mid-morning. Which mean that she could grab her stuff and maybe hang out a Starbucks for a few hours before heading over to the hospital for another night—

“Want a coffee?”

Natasha froze, and then turned slowly towards the voice. In her rush to leave she’d forgotten that there were other occupants of the apartment, and apparently she wasn’t the only one awake.

The dark-haired man was standing behind the counter of the tiny kitchen. From the relative neatness of the main area she guessed that he had probably been up cleaning for a few hours. He was drying dishes, the metal of his left arm gleaming as he worked. He was looking at her, clearly expecting some kind of answer.

She cleared her throat and tried to make her voice sound nonchalant and not like she was about to run for her life. “No thanks, I’m fine.”

“Shhh.” He put his finger to his lips and then pointed towards the couch and the figure sleeping on it, nearly cocooned in a sleeping bag. “My sister,” he said by way of explanation. Then he shrugged. “Actually, you can probably keep talking in a normal voice. She sleeps like the dead.”

He grinned at her, a wide smile that turned him from just plain good-looking to completely stunning. And yet, Natasha’s mind immediately flashed to the man she’d left in the bedroom, and how much she liked his not-handsome face. 

The man behind the counter tilted his head, his bright blue eyes narrowed as he considered her. “I’m Bucky, by the way. Are you one of Steve’s friends?”

She nodded, hoping the lie wouldn’t show on her face. “Uh huh.”

“You stayed with Clint last night?”

 _Clint!_ she knew his name! But then Bucky’s question sunk in. She studied him, but there was no judgment in his expression. “Yes,” she said. 

“He know you’re leaving?”

She thinned her lips. “It’s fine.”

“Sure,” Bucky said, clearly unconvinced. He leaned on the counter, towel resting between his hands. 

“Yeah,” she replied. She went to the door and slipped on her hiking boots. They weren’t exactly weather appropriate, but they were the best she had. Maybe she’d go to a dollar store and buy a few more socks to wear underneath. 

“Where you headed?” 

Natasha glanced up from tying her laces. “Back home.” At least _that_ wasn’t exactly a lie. The hospital was a home, of sorts. 

“Does Clint know how to find you?” Bucky said. 

“It’s fine,” she said again. 

Bucky came out from behind the counter and leaned against it. He was wearing jeans and a plain white t-shirt and bare feet, and for a brief second Natasha wondered if it was something about this group of friends that prevented them from wearing socks in the winter. He crossed his arms, metal over flesh. 

Natasha remembered seeing his metal arm last night, and being both intrigued and a bit horrified by how he might have gotten it; what kind of painful history it would have to represent. 

“Do you need any money for a taxi or anything?” he asked. 

She looked up sharply. “Why’d you think I need money?”

His expression was open and guileless. “I don’t,” he said. “But if my sister were leaving a place by herself I’d want someone to offer her money to make sure she got home safe.”

“Oh.” Natasha bit her lip. The offer was really nice, and actually seemed sincere. Was it even possible that Clint and his friends were good men? She stored the thought away, planning to consider it later when she was alone. 

“Here.” He grabbed a wallet off the counter and pulled out a twenty.

She went over and picked up the money, trying to move slowly enough that it didn’t look like she was snatching it out of desperation, even though she was. She went back to the door, grabbed her coat of the hook and put it on.

“Thanks,” she said. Her hand was on the knob and in two more seconds, she’d escape out the door and be safe. 

For some reason, she couldn’t quite make herself do it.

“You okay?” Bucky asked, which was the exact moment that Clint came barreling into the room.

* * *

Clint knew she’d left before he even stepped out of the bathroom.

It was a sick feeling like the nausea from his hangover. Only worse because it felt like it was in his _heart._

He wanted to just wrap a towel around his waist and run after her, but he knew if she saw that she'd be terrified. She clearly had some big-time issues about men and sex, and he really didn’t want to accidentally step into the middle of that.

He might be a mess, but he wasn’t going to hurt her. He’d promised her that and he’d die before he broke it.

But it felt like it took him forever to throw on underwear, jeans and a t-shirt and race to the door. 

He skidded to a halt in the middle of the living room, one hand reached out towards her and breathing hard like he’d just run a marathon and not the few short steps from Sam’s bedroom. He could feel his wet skin sticking to his clothes, water from his hair dripped down his neck and stuck his collar to his back. 

“Wait!” he gasped. “Don’t leave. Please.”

She stood, her bottle-green eyes wide and her hand still on the door. “I–“

Clint risked it and took a step closer. His mind flashed back to eight months previous, when Steve had told him and Sam about how he met his soulmate and then lost him the same day. _I’d hate to meet her and lose her right after._ Clint had said to Steve. And now it was happening. 

Clint swallowed. He glanced at Bucky, who looked desperately uncomfortable with the drama unfolding in front of him, but there wasn’t anything Clint could do about that. He'd do anything to keep his soulmate from leaving. He still didn't even know her name.

She was still looking at him, her hand still on the doorknob as if she couldn’t decide to stay or flee. Her eyes were wide with a combination of fear and what looked like a deep, deep sadness. Like he’d already broken her heart. It made him feel like his own heart had slammed to a stop in his chest. 

It brought back a sudden, desperate memory of the first few months after Phil took him in, when there’d been so much pain and anger and sadness inside him that he saw betrayal and danger in everything that Phil did. He remembered lashing out at Phil over and over again, sure that he couldn’t trust the man but praying that he could. 

Maybe she was feeling the same way he had, but she still hadn’t left. Maybe he could work with that. 

“Look,” he forced out through a throat gone tight. “I know I’m not anyone’s idea of a soulmate—“ he laughed so he wouldn’t have to choke on the words. “I mean, I doubt I’m anyone’s idea of a cheap date, let alone a soulmate, and I know…I know I’m a mess…“

She looked startled, like she hadn’t expected those words. And he felt something relax, just a little bit, as he realized she was listening; that she hadn’t shut him out completely.

“No,” she said. “Clint—“

“And I know that I’m not good enough for you,“ he continued quickly before he lost his nerve. He smiled because this kind of truth stabbed like splinters under your fingernails, but he wasn’t going to stop. He dropped to his knees on the floor in front of her. “But I promise. I _swear_ that I will spend the rest of my life trying to be the man you deserve.”

“Holy shit,” Bucky muttered from somewhere behind him.

The fear and sadness on her face transformed in to a look of shock so profound it was almost comical. “No,“ she said again, and this time she took a step towards him and Clint felt this crazy surge of hope. “Clint,” she said. “It’s not—“

And then there was a horrible scream from behind him. Clint whirled on his knees, just in time to see a brown-haired woman who must have been Bucky’s sister roll off the couch and land hard on the floor. She was kicking out of the sleeping bag and screaming and her eyes were huge with terrible pain and raw fear. 

“Becca!” Bucky slammed to his knees beside her, his metal arm tearing through the sleeping bag like it was Kleenex.

Clint was beside Becca and Bucky without even thinking about. He pushed up the end of her sleeping shorts and put both his hands over the jagged, bleeding tear on her upper right thigh and was pressing down as hard as he could. She screamed and tried to push him away. 

“No Becca!” Bucky reached for her and she clutched him as he held her, her body wracked with sobs of agony and panic. 

Bucky’s eyes were wide with fear. “What happened?”

“I don’t know,” Clint said grimly. “Call 911 and tell them we need an ambulance.” He was pressing down as hard as he dared and there was still blood seeping through his fingers, making his grip on her leg slippery. The wound on her leg looked like it had been carved there. Like someone had been practicing their penmanship on her flesh with a fucking hunting knife. 

He turned to his soulmate who was still standing by the door. She looked like she’d been the one stabbed.

“Hey,” he called to her, and then again “hey!” when she didn’t immediately respond. “Get my scarf off the coat rack. It’s purple,” he said to her when she finally focused on him. “And then go into the kitchen and find a towel, any towel and bring it to me.”

“They’re in the drawer by the stove,” Bucky said. His voice was shaking. He was still holding his sister with his flesh arm. His metal hand was working over his cell phone, dialing emergency services.

His soulmate nodded and ran to do Clint’s bidding, returning quickly with a white tea towel and his purple scarf. 

_Fuck._ Clint thought, resigned. Phil got him that scarf. “Fold the towel and put it on the wound." She nodded. She looked like she was going to faint, but she did exactly what he said. He moved his hands and she put the towel down. “Hold it there.” Deftly, he pulled the scarf under Becca’s leg and over the towel. He tied it in a knot, making sure the pressure was right over the wound, and then pulled as tight as he could. 

Becca screamed again, sounding like it was ripped out of her. 

“Sorry!” Clint said desperately. “I’m so sorry!” But he didn’t stop until the knot was as tight as he could make it. 

She was still shuddering against Bucky, but at least she had stopped screaming. 

“It’s okay, I’ve got you,” Bucky was murmuring into her hair over and over. He looked at Clint. “Ambulance’s on the way.”

“Let’s get her downstairs,” Clint said, and carefully they both managed to get to their feet with Becca’s weight held between them. 

She put one arm over each of their shoulders, and they carried her together towards the door. Clint was shorter than Bucky, but thanks to years of archery training he was stronger, which meant that he could compensate for the height difference. 

His soulmate seemed to have pulled herself together. She ran ahead of them, opening doors and clearing the path for them to the elevator. 

The towel on Becca’s leg had already soaked through and was leaving a trail of bright red blood on the hallway carpet. 

“It’s my soulmark,” Becca whimpered against her brother’s shoulder. “It’s come in like dad’s brother’s did. I’m going to die.”

“Don’t say that!” Bucky hissed back at her. “You’re not going to die! Don’t you dare die!”

“Will I lose my leg?” She asked him, and Clint tried very, very hard to not look at the bright terror in her eyes. “I can’t lose my leg! I’m not brave like you!” 

“You’re the bravest person I know.” Bucky’s voice was coarse, tight. “Just hold on, Becca. We’re almost there.”

The trip in the elevator felt like it took forever, and then crossing the lobby and then outside took another eternity. But the ambulance pulled up just as they went through the door. 

“Here!” Clint's soulmate called, waving the paramedics down as soon as Bucky and Clint were through. 

And then the paramedics were there with their stretcher and their equipment and Becca and Bucky were put in the back and the door closed and the ambulance drove off. 

Clint realized he was standing outside in just a damp t-shirt, jeans and bare feet. His hair was still wet. He wrapped his arms around himself.

“Oh my God, look at you!” his soulmate said, pushing him back inside. “You’ll die if you stay out here.”

Clint went without protest, feeling the temperature now that he was crashing from the surge of adrenaline. 

The lobby was decorated for the holidays, bright and shiny with silver and gold everywhere. It made Clint blink to realize he’d carried a bleeding woman through it mere moments before. 

“There’s blood on your shirt,” his soulmate said.

Clint looked down. What he thought was water making him cold was Becca’s blood--it had soaked through the bottom of his t-shirt and the top of his jeans. There was blood on both his hands.

He cleared his throat, staring at it. “That’s a lot of blood.”

She put her hand on the side of his face, a reflection of what he’d done the night before, and gently lifted his head until he was looking at her instead of the gore on his clothes.

“You were awesome,” she said, her gaze holding his. There was still sadness in her eyes, but also…admiration?

He shook his head. “No,” he said automatically. “I couldn’t stop the bleed-“

“You were awesome,” she repeated and smiled.

She was so beautiful it felt like a punch to the gut. He smiled back, and she kept smiling at him, and Clint was beginning to feel that maybe, somehow, she’d given him a second chance. 

Then the cold hit and his teeth started chattering.

“Here. Take your hoodie back.” She started taking off her coat.

“N-no,” he stuttered through chattering teeth. “K—keep it.”

She looked at him, but put her coat back on. “Then you need to go upstairs and put on some warmer clothes. And you’ll need to go to Stark Memorial to bring Bucky his wallet and his boots and his coat, too. I think he left without any of that.” 

“S-Stark?” 

His soulmate nodded. “That’s where the paramedics said they were taking her. It’s closest.” She frowned. “I don’t think Bucky was wearing any socks. You’ll need to bring him those, too.”

Clint didn’t have any socks on, either, and his toes were feeling like little cubes of ice. “I th-think I n-need to g-go up-st-stairs.”

She nodded. “Go. Get warm.” 

Shivering, he turned and went.

It was only after he got upstairs and he had finished washing his hands for the third time that he realized what she’d done. 

Heart pounding, he tore off his ruined clothes and got re-dressed. He’d only brought that hoodie and one change of clothes with him, so he grabbed a random sweatshirt of Sam’s, one of his t-shirts and a pair of jeans that he had to roll up, like, a hundred times. He put on a pair of socks and his boots and ran down the stairs, studiously ignoring the destroyed sleeping bag and smears of blood drying on the living room floor. 

But, by the time he got back downstairs, she was gone. 

And he still didn’t know her name.

* * *

Clint went back upstairs. 

He found a garbage bag and some paper towel and a spray bottle of eco-friendly cleaning fluid and cleaned up every trace of the torn sleeping bag and the blood. 

His head was throbbing from a combination of adrenaline dump, hunger, caffeine withdrawal and the painful remnants of the hangover he’d woken up with. But the sick feeling was totally because his soulmate had just left him. 

_I’d hate to meet her and lose her right after,_ he’d said, and now it'd happened. 

Only he wasn’t nine and his soulmate wasn’t ten and he sure as hell didn’t want to have to wait for over twelve years to find her again.

Stumbling just a little, he made his way to the bathroom and rummaged through the medicine cabinet until he found the Tylenol and immediately downed two with tepid tap water, drinking from his hands. 

He looked at his face in the mirror. There were dark circles under his reddened eyes and a scuff of dark blond beard on his face. He looked sick and exhausted and terribly sad, and every second of his twenty-two years. 

_You’re a mess!_ he thought to himself. 

_You’re awesome,_ his soulmate had said, right before she’d disappeared on him again. But still, she’d said it. And that had to mean _something,_ right? 

He had to find her. He _would_ find her. And he’d spend the rest of his life proving to her that he’d keep her safe; that she didn’t need to run anymore. Just like he’d promised. 

“But first, breakfast,” he muttered.

* * *

Clint gently pushed open the door of Becca’s room at the back of the emergency department. “Hey,” he said softly.

Bucky looked up from where he was sitting in a chair by her bed, head resting on his hand. He looked wrecked, exactly like his sister had almost bled to death in his arms just that morning. But at least he was dressed warmer. Clint recognized the sweatshirt as being one of Steve’s and he guessed the socks probably were, too.

“Hey,” Bucky replied. He motioned to his sister with his chin. “You don’t have to whisper. She’s on the good stuff.”

Clint crept all the way into the room, being careful to not let the door slam behind him. Being in a hospital brought back an awful lot of, well, really awful memories of being in a hospital. He’d had to stay in one for several weeks after his brother had nearly killed him. He remembered how much the slamming of his room door startled him, every single time. 

“You see Steve?” Bucky asked.

Clint nodded. “He sent me here. He said he’d be by when things slowed down a little.”

“Yeah,” Bucky said. “When I saw him earlier he said it’d been going flat-out since his shift started at seven this morning.”

“I bet he wishes he could be in here.”

Bucky shrugged. “Not much reason to be. We’re just waiting.”

“I brought you guys some things.” Clint held up the brown bag he was carrying and the duffel he’d packed before he left.

“Oh hey.” Bucky took the paper bag from him and checked its contents. “Bagels! Sweet.”

Clint shrugged. “I thought you might be hungry.”

“That’s really nice of you, pal. Thanks.” Bucky put the bag on the small table next to him and took the duffel, hoisting it onto his lap. “Oof!. Did you leave _any_ of my clothes in the apartment?”

“Ha ha,” Clint said. “I grabbed a change of clothes for you and your boots and your toothbrush and shit. I just shoved what I thought was Becca’s bag inside.”

“Thanks, man. I really appreciate it.” Bucky opened the bag and started rummaging through it, and then looked up with a smile. “You brought my book.”

“Welcome,” Clint said. “I wasn’t sure when you’d be able to get back, and I didn’t know if Steve had anything to lend you here. He grinned. “You're really reading I Am Iron Man? Isn’t Tony Stark, like, your boss?”

“Yeah.” Bucky nodded. “The book’s actually pretty good. It’s about his time in Afghanistan and--“

“Suck up,” Clint interrupted. “You get it signed?”

“I did actually.” Bucky held it up so Clint could see the frontispiece, where Stark had scrawled: _‘Hey JB! Love the new arm! Tony.’_ In thick, gold script. 

Clint laughed. “Total suck up.”

Bucky looked affronted. “He’s a great guy.”

“Suck up,” Clint repeated and then snickered at Bucky’s dark look.

“You’re just jealous.” Bucky put the book on the table and then gestured at the other chair. “Take a load off.”

Clint sagged down into the room’s second chair. It was a small plastic one, way different than the large recliner that Bucky was in, and probably a hundred times less comfortable. 

“How’s she doing?” Clint asked quietly.

Bucky sighed. “She’s doing okay. Doctor’s got the bleeding under control, and now we’re just waiting for the plastic surgeon to arrive to see if she can sew her leg back together without totally destroying what’s left of her soulmarks.”

“So it was her soulmarks,” Clint said. “Like she said. I wondered.”

“Yeah,” Bucky said. “Her soulmarks came in badly. Instead of forming on the surface of the skin the way they’re supposed to, they formed deep underneath and then, sorta tore their way up.” He illustrated the idea with his hands, the fingers of one pushing up through the other. “It’s a thing that runs in my family apparently. My uncle died from it.”

“Jesus,” Clint breathed. “He died from his marks forming? Really?”

“Uh huh.” Bucky nodded. “His soulmarks came in early, like mine. But this was back in the sixties in Romania, so their access to health care under the Red Curtain wasn’t so great. Poor kid bled to death before my grandparents could get him to the hospital. It was one of the reasons my dad moved to America.”

“That’s horrible.” Clint shuddered. 

“You’re telling me.”

They sat quietly for a bit and Clint watched Bucky’s eyes fall on where his sister was sleeping. There was a small frown creasing a line between her eyebrows, but otherwise she seemed to be resting.

“You told your mom?” Clint asked.

“No.” Bucky’s chin was in his palm, finger over his mouth as he looked at his sibling. “It was hard enough on her when I had my accident. I’ll call her when the doctor’s know more.” 

Clint nodded, understanding that kind of consideration. 

“She’s my twin,” Bucky said seemingly out of nowhere. “Most people think she’s way younger than me, because she’s so bright and happy. But I’m actually only her big brother by five minutes.” 

“Wow,” Clint said. “No wonder you two are so close.”

“Yeah,” Bucky agreed. “I’m just really glad you were there.”

“Me?” Clint jerked back. “Why?”

Bucky’s gaze sharpened. “Because you saved her life.”

Clint pulled the sleeves of his sweater down over his knuckles. “No I didn’t.”

“Yes, you did,” Bucky said. 

“No.” Clint shook his head. He remembered the trail of bright red drops from the apartment all the way down to the lobby. “I didn’t help at all.”

“That’s not what the paramedics said. They said that your scarf-towel combination slowed the bleeding down enough that they could do the rest.” 

“Oh,” Clint said. 

“I was so freaked out,” Bucky continued. “I’m not sure what I would’ve done if I’d been by myself. It was great that you and--” Bucky paused and looked around as if just realizing that Clint was alone. “Where’s your girl?”

Clint looked down at his hands, pulling at his sleeves. “She, uh, kinda left.”

“Damn,” Bucky muttered, sounding almost exactly like Steve. “I thought she was gonna.”

“Yeah,” Clint agreed. 

“She your soulmate?”

Clint nodded. “Yeah.”

“Huh.” Bucky cleared his throat. “I couldn’t, ah, help but overhear you talking to her when you--“ he made a vague gesture towards the floor. 

“Sorry about that.” Clint could feel his cheeks heat as he blushed. “She was gonna leave and I just didn’t—“

Bucky waved him off. “I know, pal.” He looked at Clint. “But, what you said. You meant it?”

Clint’s reply was immediate. “Every word.” 

“So, you gonna go find her?”

“I want to,” Clint said. He pulled his sleeves down over his hands again, leaning his forearms on his knees. “But. Uh. She doesn’t seem too keen on staying. With me. I mean, she left.”

“Worst thing I ever did was not looking for Steve,” Bucky said. “Maybe if I’d searched a bit before my accident, the Universe wouldn’t’ve taken off my arm to get us back together.”

Clint tilted his head. “You can’t really think that.”

“Romanian. Remember? We think a lot of weird things.” 

Clint quirked up his lips. “I’m not sure the Universe pays that much attention to me.” 

Bucky eyed him. “I think you’d be surprised.”

“Yeah? Why’s that?”

“Because, look what I was using as a bookmark for I Am Iron Man. If that ain’t a message from the Universe. I don’t know what is.” 

Clint sat up. “Is that the map you used to find Steve?”

“One and the same.” 

“Fuck me,” Clint said, taking the offered map from Bucky’s hands. He licked his lips, looking at the glossy print. It was a tourist map with colourful illustrations of Brooklyn’s attractions and institutions. The _Maria Stark Memorial Hospital_ had been circled in blue pen, like, a hundred times. 

“You wanna try it?” Bucky asked. His voice was soft.

Clint swallowed. “I don’t want her to run away again.”

“I know, pal,” Bucky said. “But if you don’t go look for her. She’s gone for good.”

“True that,” Clint muttered. Carefully he unfolded the map and then placed it on his lap so that the hospital was right in the centre. He closed his eyes. “ _You’re a mess!_ ” he whispered, and pointed.

* * *

Natasha shouldered her backpack and started her trek back from the Student Athletic Centre to the hospital, where she planned to hopefully pilfer more cookies and then settle in for the night. 

The wind had picked up since that morning, and even though it was only early afternoon the temperature had dropped enough that she was very glad for the extra warmth that Clint’s hoodie had given her.

She knew she should've given it back to him before she left; she should've draped it over the back of one of the couches in the apartment’s lobby or even left it hanging on the main door, but she hadn’t.

She’d tried to convince herself that she’d kept it merely for practical reasons, that it was a warm piece of clothing, long enough to cover her almost down to her knees, and extremely helpful when paired with her inadequate second-hand-store coat. But she knew that'd be a lie.

The hoodie smelled like Clint. A warm, soothing scent that was clean and sweet and earthy all at the same time. Like taking a shower with vanilla soap in a forest rainfall.

Natasha chuckled, laughing at the ridiculousness of her thoughts. Clearly she had it bad if that was the type of description smelling his hoodie brought to mind. And then _that_ thought stopped her cold. 

She had it bad. But she’d run away.

Steps feeling even heavier than before, Natasha continued walking towards the hospital, hood up, head down and hands jammed into her pockets. Her dollar store mittens did nothing to stop the wind, but right now she couldn’t afford better. 

And maybe she didn’t deserve better than suffering alone in the cold. She was a coward.

She felt her eyes grow wet as she thought about what she’d done. Clint had been nothing but kind to her, and he’d been so brave when Becca started bleeding. He’d saved Becca's _life_. As soon as Natasha had seen the blood, she’d frozen, suddenly overwhelmed by memories that she’d thought she’d left far behind—

Shoving the thoughts as far aside as she could, Natasha turned off the street onto the path that cut through the University campus and led back to the hospital. The path led through a treed area, lit by old fashioned light standards and lined by benches. It was a beautiful, green oasis, and during the summer Natasha liked to study there. Now, only two, very chilly days before Christmas, it was grey and gloomy in the pale winter light.

Angrily, she brushed a cold tear off her face. She hated to cry. Vulnerability of any kind usually made things worse. She tried to never, ever show vulnerability. 

But she was feeling vulnerable right now. She missed Clint. She missed her _soulmate,_ and she was feeling alone and abandoned even though she’d made the choice to leave him. She’d run from fear, pure and simple. She’d run because he seemed like a truly good man, and she was terrified that she was wrong. 

Because if she were wrong, if he was selfish, or cruel or violent just like her step-dad, or Brock at the group home, appearing kind and caring and yet so, so different…

Natasha wiped away more tears. She wanted to trust him, but she didn’t know what she'd do if she were wrong. 

Her hiking boots crunched through the snow as she walked, hunched over against the cold. Normally she walked with her shoulders back and her head up, but she was too cold and too miserable to make the effort. For once she allowed her body to reflect exactly how she felt inside: Weak and sad and terribly alone.

Which was probably exactly the reason why the three thugs thought she’d be an easy target.

“Hey sweetheart,” the first one said, coming to stand right in front of her, far too close for comfort. “You look cold. We’ll warm you up.” He smiled around a mouthful of yellow teeth, cigarette dangling from the corner of his chapped lips. His grey jacket was greasy with filth and his black watch cap was pulled low over sallow skin. 

“Yeah,” his first companion said, an equally unappealing man. His long greasy hair and thick beard were tangled and snarled with unintentional dreads. 

The third man sniggered. He was tall and badly put together and terribly thin like a malnourished scarecrow. His hands were jammed in his pockets and his eyes were wide and wild in the early dusk. 

_First target._ Natasha thought as she looked at him. He appeared the most drugged and therefore would be the easiest to take down. Hopefully once she dealt with him the others would get the hint and leave her alone.

She straightened, shifting her weight to the balls of her feet and going into a fighting stance. 

“You really don’t want to do this,” she said.

“I think we really do,” The first man said, mouth twisted in a cruel grin. He turned to Greasy Hair behind him. “It’s gonna be an early Christmas.”

“Yeah. Merry Christmas!” Greasy Hair giggled. Scarecrow sniggered again, a high wheezy sound. 

Natasha’s smile was anything but friendly. “Bring it.” And then she attacked.

* * *

Fuck, it was cold. 

Clint zipped his coat up higher and pulled his hood over his head. In his rush to leave the apartment he’d forgotten his hat, and his poor scarf was probably at the bottom of a biohazard bag somewhere in _Stark Memorial_. 

He frowned. He loved that scarf. Purple scarves that weren’t big shawl-like things were kind of hard to find. His dad said he’d looked in three different stores to get it. Hopefully he wouldn’t be mad that Clint had gotten it destroyed.

Clint shook his head as he walked. It’d been seven years since Phil took him in, and Clint still had trouble remembering that Phil wouldn’t get mad at him for stuff. 

Well, not for stuff like getting his scarf ruined. He’d probably get mad if Clint stole his car again.

Although in his defense it was just that one time, and he’d really needed to get to school. And the car wasn’t _that_ badly damaged. 

But still, Clint really needed to remember that he was safe with Phil. That Phil cared for him and even if he screwed up, Phil would still help him out. Phil had even said that he loved him, and Clint had no real reason to think he’d be lying. So, yeah. He was safe with Phil. Phil made him feel safe.

And if Clint was very, very lucky, he might be able to convince his soulmate that she'd be safe with him and that he loved her, too. And then maybe she’d relax and be less afraid. 

And maybe, if he was _really_ lucky, one day she might start to love him back.

But first he’d have to find her. And then he’d have to learn her name. 

When he’d poked the map, he and Bucky’d been surprised to see that his finger had landed pretty close to the hospital, but it seemed like as good a place to start as any. If he didn’t find her he could always go poke the map again. And if the little map didn’t work, Steve would probably let him try the big one in his bedroom. 

Steve had gone to Paris to find Bucky, after all. Clint would go anywhere. 

But if she wasn't in Brooklyn, hopefully she'd gone somewhere warm. Because New York in winter? Fucking cold. 

Even though it was still early afternoon, the day was gloomy enough that the Christmas lights had been turned on. Clint’s path towards the University was sparkling and festive as any Christmas card. The city felt empty, with most people either still at work or already home for the holidays, and everyone trying to stay indoors and keep warm. 

The city was cold and quiet and strangely peaceful, and Clint was enjoying being outdoors and away from the hospital. He just didn’t like the cold – or the thought that his soulmate might be out here in it. Alone.

Not for the first time he wondered about that. She'd made that strange comment about sleeping in a comfortable bed, and her boots and coat weren’t really right for this frigid weather. He might've been busy trying to make her stay and then trying to save Becca’s life, but Clint always noticed shit like that. Being observant had kept him alive more than once when he’d been with the circus, and then afterwards, when he and Barney were…

Well, knowing she’d be cold was one of the reasons he’d let her keep his hoodie. The other was that she looked amazing in it. He kind of liked the idea of her wearing his clothes. 

He trudged through the snow, keeping his eyes peeled and his ears open, looking for the flash of her bright red hair or the sound of small feet on snow. 

But it wasn’t the crunch of boots he heard, it was the unmistakable sound of a fist landing solidly on another human being and a distinctly feminine cry of pain and rage that started Clint running.

* * *

One moment Natasha was slamming her fist into Greasy Hair’s face, and the next Greasy Hair had been knocked to the ground. 

Natasha blinked in surprise before whirling on Yellow Teeth, who was trying to sneak up behind her. She kicked him hard in the ankle.

Taking out Scarecrow had been easier than she’d thought. One blow to the solar plexus, followed up with a kick to his knee and scything her hand to his throat and he’d limped away at full speed. 

Unfortunately Yellow Teeth and Greasy Hair had taken that as a challenge. 

She’d kept them both back, and was pretty sure she'd broken a couple of Yellow Teeth's fingers, but even with the adrenaline flowing through her, she was getting tired. Her hands were sore and her cheek ached where one of them had gotten in a lucky punch, and her opponents had the determination of the truly demented. She'd begun to worry that she wouldn’t be able to fight them off. 

“You bitch!” Yellow Teeth screamed at her as he swung again. Whatever this guy was on, it certainly had done more for his stamina than his common sense. 

Yellow Teeth ran at her again, seemingly not feeling the damage she’d already inflicted. He grabbed for her and his hand managed to connect with her hair, pulling her head down violently and baring her throat. 

And then a fist pounded into his face and he let go of her to stagger back.

“ _Don’t you fucking touch her!_ ” Clint screamed as he punched him again. 

Natasha had no idea where he'd come from, but she didn't let the advantage go to waste. Turning quickly, she kicked Greasy Hair hard enough in the head that getting up off his knees probably didn’t seem like such a great idea anymore. She grabbed her bag and started running. 

She got less than ten steps away before she turned back. 

It was _Clint_ who was fighting for her. Her _soulmate_ , appearing like a knight in shining armour to defend her. It was exactly like everything she’d ever dreamed about when she was a little girl.

It was painfully obvious that, while Clint was a capable fighter, Yellow Teeth’s drugged-up state and height were giving him an advantage. Clint fought with the desperate skill of someone who'd learned by trial and error. He swung wide and didn’t protect his face and relied too much on his right side, and it was only a matter of moments before Yellow Teeth reared back and hit him in the face. Hard.

Clint’s nose was bleeding, but to his credit he didn’t stop. He got in several quick jabs and then a really nice cross that sent Yellow Teeth lurching away, feet slipping on the snow. 

That’s when Natasha jumped in and smashed Yellow Teeth in the throat like she’d done to Scarecrow. She kicked him in the balls for good measure, and then kicked him in the ribs when he went down, hard. Yeah it was dirty, but this guy made her soulmate bleed. He was lucky she was leaving him alive.

When Yellow Teeth was whimpering on the ground, Natasha turned to Clint. 

His hands were pressed to his face, fat drops of blood slowly dripping through his fingers to land brutal and red on the snow. 

“Are you all right?” she asked uselessly, holding on to his shoulders. His nose was bleeding. In what way could he possibly be all right? She couldn’t believe how hard her heart was pounding. She felt sick, seeing him wounded. 

“I’m fine,” he muttered. He peered at her, his eyes watery from the blow to his nose. “Did they hurt you?”

She shook her head. Yellow Teeth had gotten a couple of hits in and her cheek was sore, but she’d had worse. “I’m fine,” she echoed. She looked him over again, and then frowned. “You’re a mess,” she said, and then her eyes widened as she realized she’d repeated his soulmarks to him again.

She could tell he was grinning even through his hands. “You’re beautiful.”

She had to smile at that, even though it was fleeting. Gently she turned him so that they were both heading towards the hospital, leaving her attackers groaning in the snow. “I think you need to go to emergency,” she said. She needed to know he was going to be okay. It felt like she wouldn’t be able to breathe until he was seen by a doctor.

“I hate hospitals,” Clint mumbled. He was pretty hard to understand with both his hands pressed to his face.

“It’s okay. I'll be there with you,” she said, wrapping her arm around his waist like she’d done the night before. He didn’t need her help to walk this time, but she couldn’t resist the urge to hold him. Her heart was beating so hard she was sure he could hear it. She could feel her pulse in her throat. 

_You love him,_ she thought. And terrifyingly, she knew it was true. 

And what the hell was she meant to do now?

“There’s the hospital,” Clint said, sounding nasally and wet as the flow of blood leaked through his fingers. It had dripped on his coat while he walked and made Natasha nauseous just to look at it. 

“Good,” she said, swallowing thickly. 

“It’s okay,” he whispered to her, offering her comfort when he was the one injured, and suddenly she wanted to cry. 

_I love you,_ she thought. _God help me. I love you._

* * *

Clint’s nose was throbbing. 

Check that, it was fucking throbbing. Throbbing like the bass in a pain nightclub. Like a pain DJ putting down pain tracks, dropping pain beats in time to the rhythm of a pain band. 

It fucking hurt.

He could still feel blood oozing slowly out of his nose, coating the inside of his hands with the thick, warm fluid, forcing him to breathe through his mouth and glazing his tongue with the harsh taste of copper. 

“We’re here,” his still-nameless soulmate said. 

“Thanks,” Clint said, his voice nasally and unnatural. He went through the doors to the emergency that she was holding for him, his hands still cupping his face. 

Quickly he surveyed the lobby. There were tons of people waiting, lined up to see the triage nurse or sitting on the uncomfortable chairs, looking sore and sick and miserable and like they’d rather be doing anything else than waiting in a hospital two days before Christmas. 

“We should get in line,” she said, eyeing the masses of people. Her lips were turned down in a small frown. 

“I’m not getting in line like this,” Clint said. He pointed towards the men’s washroom with one bloody hand. “I’m going to get cleaned up.”

Her frown deepened. “But the line will be longer.” 

“Then you stand there,” he said and headed to the men’s washroom. He forced himself not to look at his soulmate as he left. He hadn’t really meant to snap at her like that, but he _hated_ hospitals. And being in pain, and the way he was sure she’d be gone by the time he got out, anyway. 

Once inside, he stood in front of the mirror and gingerly took his hands away from his face. And winced.

His nose was swollen. His eyes were underlined with purplish bruising and there was a cut on the bridge of his nose, dark red with dried blood. There was dried blood in thick rivers from his nostrils running all the way down to his chin. 

Even if he hadn’t seen it at least three times before, Clint would've known his nose was broken.

“Aww, nose,” he muttered and turned on the tap. It was almost funny that he was washing blood off his hands for the second time in one day. Almost. 

Carefully he rinsed the blood off his face so he wouldn't look so much like an extra in a horror movie. At least the bleeding had stopped, and when he tentatively put his little finger inside his nostrils he didn’t feel the disgusting boggy feeling of blood clots stuck in his septum. He could still breathe, although there was a strange whistling sound through the narrowed passages, but it was nothing that a couple of Tylenol and some ice couldn’t fix.

He sighed in relief. He might look like a mess, but at least he didn’t need to see a doctor. He shuddered. _Doctors._

He cleaned his hands one more time to try to get all the blood out from underneath his nails, and then he had no reason to delay any longer. It was time to open the door of the washroom and go back out and see that his soulmate had left him for a second time.

Clint put his hand on the doorknob and closed his eyes, steeling himself for the sense of hurt and loss that her disappearing act was going to leave him with. And then he went out.

She was still there. She was standing in the line for triage, just like he'd told her to do. 

The sense of relief Clint felt was strong enough that his knees gave way and he had to catch himself on the back of one of the waiting room chairs. The elderly person he almost sat on looked at him with mild disinterest that turned into alarm when she saw his face. 

“Do you need to sit down?” she asked, looking like she was going to stand.

“M’okay,” Clint said quickly, and made his way over to his soulmate. She hadn’t noticed him nearly landing in the old lady’s lap because she was facing away from him with her arms crossed. There was an expression of anxious concern on her face. 

For the life of him, he couldn’t understand why she was still there. But she was, and he wasn’t going to waste this opportunity. Quickly, before she could change her mind, he went over to her. He purposely swung around the line to come at her from the direction where she was looking so she wouldn’t be surprised. He’d seen her fight; he knew she was wickedly fast and probably deadly, and he also knew she was skittish and unsure of him. He didn’t want to give her another excuse to run. Or to accidentally take him out.

“Hey,” he said quietly, when she’d looked up and he caught her eye.

“Hi,” she said. She looked at him warily, like she was expecting him to bite her head off again. Her jaw was firm, ready to fight. 

“I’m sorry I snapped at you,” he said. “I just really hate hospitals.” He looked down, unable to keep her gaze. Her bottle green eyes were so intense when she focused on him. 

“I don’t think anyone really likes them,” she said.

“Yeah.” He huffed out a laugh. “I guess not.” He rubbed the back of his neck, flicking his eyes to hers. “We don’t have to stay here, though.”

Her frown deepened. “But you need to get checked out.”

“No. I’m okay.” 

“But I think your nose is broken,” she said. “You should see a doctor.”

“I know it’s broken,” he replied. “I don’t really need a doctor to tell me that.”

“But you need an X-ray and one of those butterfly cast things.” She gestured at her face. “To help it heal.”

“You only need those if your nose is really smashed up. Or you’re a famous basketball player,” Clint said. “I don’t need either of those things.” At her blatantly skeptical look he added, “Trust me.”

She narrowed her eyes. “You need to be seen by a doctor.”

Clint shook his head, and then winced as the movement caused his nose to throb painfully. “No.”

“But you’re hurt!”

“But there’s nothing they can do!”

“But what if it’s bad?” she continued. “What if it’s worse than you think?”

“It’s not,” Clint sighed, exasperated. “I’ve been through this before.”

She blinked. “You’ve broken your nose before?” 

“Yeah.” Clint looked away. “A couple times, okay? So I know what I’m talking about.”

She crossed her arms. “So why did we come here if you had no intention of getting checked out? You told me to wait in line.” 

“Because it was cold outside, and my nose was bleeding and I knew I could get cleaned up in here and you could get warm.” 

Her eyes narrowed. “So you had no intention of seeing a doctor?”

“No,” Clint said. “I told you. I hate hospitals.”

“Okay,” she said. Abruptly she turned and started walking away from him, her steps quick and her hands in tight fists. 

Clint stood there dumbly for a second, watching her determined march towards the exit before he scrambled after her.

“Where are you going?”

“Away,” she said. She kept walking. 

“Wait!” He ran in front of her, holding his hands out so she’d have to walk around him to continue. 

She stopped. “Get out of my way.”

He crossed his arms. “Not until you tell me where you’re going to go.”

Her crossed arms mirrored his. “It’s none of your business.”

“You’re my soulmate. I think that makes it my business.”

Her eyes flashed. “You don’t own me.”

“No,” Clint agreed immediately, “but I also can’t let you just leave when you have nowhere to stay.”

She visibly flinched at that. “How do you know?”

“Your jacket. Your shoes. The comment you made about ‘sleeping somewhere comfortable’ last night. The fact that your backpack is huge and school’s out for the semester.” He ticked off the items on his fingers as he spoke.

“I can take care of myself.”

“Obviously.” Clint nodded. “I saw you fight. But I don’t like the idea of you being out there. Cold. Alone.” He heard the beseeching tone his voice had taken on, his hands were open, pleading.

“Well, I don’t like the idea of you not getting your nose looked at,” she countered. “Bleeding. Broken.”

He scowled. “It’s fine.”

Her smile was nasty. “So am I.”

“Not sleeping out in the cold, you’re not!” he shot back. “I can’t--I _won’t_ let that happen!”

Impossibly her smile got even nastier. “And how are you going to stop me?”

Clint felt a hard surge of anger. “Are you _blackmailing_ me? With your safety?”

She tossed her head. “Whatever works.”

“No,” he said flatly. “No. I will _not_ play this game. I’m not going to let you manipulate me with your _safety_.”

The hurt that passed through her eyes was fleeting but so strong that Clint suddenly felt like he’d been kicked in the gut. She had very obviously misunderstood what he’d meant, thinking that he cared more for his own comfort than her being warm. 

“Well, as long as we're clear.” She stepped around him, once again heading towards the exit. 

“No! Wait! That’s not what I meant!” he cried, fear overtaking his anger in a hot second. “All that matters to me is you being safe--“ He grabbed her to stop her leaving, his hand around her wrist.

She recoiled, cringing back in terror, her eyes huge. 

Clint dropped her wrist like it had burned him. “I’m sorry—“ 

But she dashed out the door and was gone.

* * *

Of course Clint ran after her. 

She saw him barreling out of the hospital entrance, his steps pounding on the over-salted sidewalk as he went looking for her. He was running full-tilt, trying to catch up with her, thinking that he knew where she had run.

Quietly, she crept out from behind the pillar she’d been hiding behind, watching him disappear into the distance.

Once he was out of sight, she went back into the hospital. 

The emergency waiting room was still as packed as before, so she went down one of the hallways that passed by the entrance to the treatment rooms that were rarely used after four pm. There was a small bench here, strategically placed under one of the windows. She supposed it was for people to find some respite from whatever bad news they might’ve received, but after about nine at night it made a perfect place for a small woman, such as herself, to sleep.

The fact she was curled up there now, though, with her arms around her knees, had nothing to do with fatigue. It felt like it was a way to keep her heart together. 

Clint had grabbed her. He’d _grabbed_ her. Her knight in shining armour had tried to hurt her, like all of them. She was never going to be safe.

She curled tighter around herself, willing herself not to cry. It was rare for people to come by this way at night but it was still afternoon, and she didn’t want to attract notice. 

Clint had made her feel safe. Safe enough to sleep beside him. How could she have been so wrong?

 _You weren’t wrong,_ her traitorous thoughts murmured at her. _He wasn’t trying to hurt you. He didn’t want you to leave again._

Natasha shook her head. How could that be true? He'd already said that he didn’t care about her being out in the cold. That he would rather leave the hospital and let her sleep outside than just see a doctor—

_That’s not what he meant. You actually know what he meant, and that wasn’t it._

“Shut up,” Natasha muttered to herself. He didn’t want to see a doctor, no matter how hurt he was, and even the threat of her being outside and cold wasn’t going to change his mind…

_That's not true. He wants you to be safe. You’re safe with him. He promised he wouldn’t hurt you. Her traitorous thoughts continued._

Natasha closed her eyes, feeling the hot trickle of tears slide their way down her cheeks. She so, so badly wanted it be true, to just _believe_ that Clint’s motives were good. That _he_ was good. That she could just trust him –

“Are you okay?”

Natasha’s startle was big enough to move her right to the edge of the bench. 

“Whoa,” Steve said, his hands out in front of him. “It’s okay. I’m not going to hurt you.”

She nodded, wiping at her eyes, not yet able to speak.

Steve had crouched down by the bench, lowering his large frame to the point where their heads were almost the same height and he wasn’t towering over her. His hands were resting on his knees and he was holding himself still. “You all right?”

She nodded, but the tears were still flowing faster than she could brush them off. She couldn’t trust her voice. 

Steve’s smile was warm. “I know nobody’s really okay when they’re crying.” 

Natasha couldn’t really argue with that. She didn’t feel okay. 

Steve gestured at the edge of the bench and she nodded so he could sit. He managed to cram his big body right on the edge so that they weren’t touching. “You’re Bucky’s friend? From our party?”

Natasha nodded. She and Bucky had talked, so close enough.

Steve fished out some tissue from the pocket of his scrub pants and handed them to her. She nodded her thanks and used them to wipe at her eyes, which were still embarrassingly streaming with tears. 

Steve leaned forward on his knees, looking up at her through his lashes. “My name’s Steve,” he said, seemingly forgetting his was still wearing his nametag. 

“Natasha,” she choked out. 

He smiled at her. “Hi, Natasha.” 

She smiled weakly at him, wiping more tears. 

“So.” He tilted his head. “Wanna talk about it?”

No. Natasha definitely did _not_ want to talk about how her confusion about her soulmate was tearing her up inside. It felt like she had swallowed broken glass. Glass the same light green colour as Clint’s eyes. 

“Is Clint a good person?” she said unexpectedly. Her mind completely betraying her.

Steve blinked. “Clint? You mean Clint Barton?”

Natasha nodded, although she had no idea what Clint’s last name really was. But how many Clint’s could Steve know, anyway? 

“Wow,” Steve said, rubbing the back of his neck. It looked so much like something Clint would do that she had to stifle another sob. He eyed her with far too much sympathy. “Are you crying because--because of Clint?”

She made a vague gesture with her tissue. Because Clint was only part of the reason. Her horrible past was the rest of it. 

Steve let out a breath. “Clint can be a real jerk, sometimes.” 

She found herself shaking her head. “No, he’s not.”

“But, you want to know if he’s a good person.” Steve’s confusion showed on his face. “Did he hurt you, somehow?”

“Yes,” she said. Then, “No.” Her throat felt clogged with tears. 

Steve’s expression darkened. “Did he hurt you _physically?_ ”

“No!” she practically shouted. “No. It’s not that.”

Steve let out a breath of relief. “That’s good. I wouldn’t think Clint would ever do that, but it’s nice to be sure.”

“So…" Natasha found herself searching Steve’s face. “So, he’s never…hurt anyone?”

Steve’s lips thinned. “Clint had a rough childhood. I won’t go into it, but let’s just say he didn’t always have a choice in the matter.”

Clint had said his nose had been broken before, Natasha remembered. She hadn’t thought much about it at the time, more concerned about his blatant refusal to take care of himself. But now she could only imagine what he'd gone through. 

“But that doesn’t really answer the question.” Steve smiled at her. “The answer is, yes. Clint is a good person. Rough sometimes. And sometimes he does some really dumb stuff. But his heart’s in the right place. For sure.” His smile broadened. “He’s been there for me from the moment I tripped over him in the library. I love him like a brother.” 

Natasha nodded in response to Steve’s words. She didn’t know Clint very well, barely at all, really, but that sounded like the man she’d met. She wiped at her face. The tissue Steve gave her was damp from her tears, but at least her torrential downpour of sobbing had changed to something more manageable. 

“But I’m pretty sure what I feel about Clint isn’t what’s important here,” Steve said quietly. “If you don’t mind, what happened? Between you and Clint, I mean.”

“He’s my soulmate,” Natasha blurted before she could stop herself. 

Steve beamed at her. “That’s great!” Then his smile faded as he took in her teary face again. “Or not. What happened?”

Natasha swallowed. What had happened? _You fell in love with him._ But she was so afraid to trust him. And then he’d said he didn’t care if she had to sleep outside in the cold…

 _That’s not true,_ her mind supplied instantly. He did care. He was just really dumb sometimes. Like Steve said. 

Steve was still looking at her, his expression one of total empathy, and something inside her just broke. 

“I’m scared,” she said finally. It was the easiest way to express everything going on in her heart. 

“Of Clint?”

Natasha shook her head, and then to her horror, she started crying again like she’d never really stopped. She _was_ scared of Clint, but not. It was terribly confusing.

Steve handed her another tissue. “Is it the whole ‘soulmate’ thing?” he asked. “Because finding your soulmate is a big deal for everyone.”

She nodded, because finding Clint had been a big deal. 

“But you asked me if he was a good person.” Steve looked at her thoughtfully. “And he’s your soulmate, but you’re not with him.” His voice got really quiet. “What's wrong, Natasha?”

And suddenly Natasha found herself in Steve’s arms, holding on to him like she was drowning. She was crying so hard that she couldn’t breathe; sobs tearing through her as she wept for everything that had ever happened to her that made her doubt her soulmate. She cried for the loss of her trust and her innocence and her hope. 

Steve’s scrub shirt was getting wet from her tears, but she couldn’t stop. She couldn’t _move_. And Steve just held her, firm and safe, and even though he was only a few years older than she was, he held her like the father she’d always wanted.

Finally, after what felt like hours of agony and a kind of emotional rawness that she’d never experienced before, Natasha’s tears stopped and her sobbing evened out into something resembling normal. 

Steve handed her yet more tissues as she slowly eased herself out of his lap and onto the bench beside him. 

“Better?” he asked. 

“Yes,” she said, because it was true. She gave him a watery smile. She was too relieved to have finally let all that emotion out to even still feel embarrassed for it. 

“I’m glad, Natasha,” he said. “Because, please stop me if I’m wrong, but I’m gonna guess that you’ve been holding that in for a long time.”

She nodded. 

“Sometimes talking about that kind of stuff is the best way to get rid of it,” he said. “And if you’re ever interested, I have a friend named Sam who’s a social worker, and he’s really good to talk to. It might help.”

“Maybe I will,” Natasha said, and she thought that perhaps she truly might.

“Bucky and I live with Sam, so I can give you his number now, if you want,” Steve said. "Or if you want to think about it, you can get it from Bucky anytime.”

Oh, right. Steve thought that she was Bucky’s friend. Natasha took a fortifying breath.

She wiped her eyes. “I don’t really know Bucky,” she confessed. “I just overheard you talking about your party and decided to crash it.”

Steve blinked, then he grinned. “Did you have a good time?” 

Natasha found herself grinning back. “Yes,” she said. “It was fun.” 

“You’re around the emerg a lot,” Steve said, looking at her closely. “I think I’ve seen you before.” 

Natasha nodded.

“Do you have family in the hospital?”

She shook her head then licked her lips, making a decision. It wasn't like he wouldn’t find out from Clint the second they spoke. “I’m kind of in-between houses right now.” 

“Huh.” There was no judgement in Steve’s expression. He shifted, seeming to come to a decision of his own. “Look,” he said, “I know you don’t know me at all, and me being best friends with your soulmate may not be that much of a recommendation right now, but I hate the idea of you not having anywhere to stay. So I need to go see my boyfriend and check on how his sister is doing. She was injured this morning and—“

“I know,” Natasha cut him off. “Clint and I were there.”

“You were?” Steve’s eyes widened with surprise. “I knew Clint was there, but—“

“Clint did all the work,” Natasha said. “He saved Becca’s life.” 

“That’s what Bucky said,” Steve agreed. 

“He’s a really good person. Isn’t he?” Natasha made it a question, but she was beginning to realize it was true.

“Yes,” Steve said sincerely. “He is. I meant what I said before. Clint really is a good guy. I trust him with my life.”

“I would really like to, to trust him like that,” she said quietly. 

“What I was going to say before is, do you want to come upstairs and hang out with me and Bucky for a while?” Steve asked. “And then maybe we can help you figure out where to stay tonight, so you can be safe?”

Natasha felt her heart surge in her chest. “Do you think Clint might be there?”

Steve smiled at her. “I think that could be arranged.”

* * *

Clint lapped the hospital twice and checked out every backstreet and alley in a five mile radius around the hospital before he conceded that his soulmate had given him the slip. 

It was now early evening, and the temperature had dropped even further from the chill of that afternoon. Clint had his hood up and his hands jammed into his pockets and he was still unpleasantly cold. 

On the plus side, all the cold air was acting like a huge ice pack for his nose, so the pain had reduced to something that he could almost ignore if he didn’t touch it, or turn his head too fast, or breathe too hard. 

But the minuses were still outweighing that tiny plus by like, a billion. He was freezing, and hungry, and there was no sign of his soulmate anywhere in this fucking empty city and this time it'd been his fault that she’d left.

Clint shook his head, and then winced at the throb of pain that caused. Everything about his soulmate had screamed ‘hands off!’ She was skittish and edgy and it was so obvious that someone had hurt her, and hurt her badly at some point in her life. She needed tenderness and kindness and totally did _not_ need some asshole grabbing at her just to make his point. 

He swore to himself that he’d never touch her again without her express permission if she would just give him another chance.

And he still hadn’t learned her name.

Clint stopped dead on the sidewalk and closed his eyes in despair. There were almost eight-and-a-half million people in New York City, two-and-a-half million in Brooklyn alone. How the hell was he meant to track down his soulmate when he didn’t even know her _name?_

He let his head drop. This must have been exactly how Steve felt when he’d lost Bucky last year. Steve had found Bucky in Paris at the scene of a terrible accident, and then immediately lost him when Bucky’d been taken by ambulance to hospital. Steve couldn’t track Bucky then because Bucky was just a nickname, and had been the only name Steve had had for him. 

Clint didn’t even have that much. And while he’d be happy to run to every hospital in the entire city the way that Steve had done in Paris—

“You’re an idiot.” Clint groaned, turning back towards _Maria Stark Memorial._ His soulmate might not be at the hospital, but Bucky was. And Bucky had the same map that had helped him find her just that afternoon. 

And even if the map didn’t work this time, Clint knew Steve would be there with Bucky, and Clint could really use a bit of Steve-time. Steve wasn’t as good as Sam when it came to the words of wisdom, but Steve was a born optimist. He usually made things feel less like a tragedy and more like a work-in-progress. 

And right now, Clint needed all the optimism and he could get.

He pushed open the doors of the hospital and took a moment to bask in the blanket of hot air that immediately encompassed him. He hadn’t realized how cold he actually was until he stepped inside. 

Shivering with the after-effects of his time outdoors, Clint pulled out his phone. There was a message waiting on it, one he hadn’t heard with his hood up and the cold wind blowing by his ears:

**We’re at Stark Memorial. Where are you?**

 **I M hr 2** Clint texted back. **W R U?**

Steve immediately texted him back their location, somewhere on one of the hospital’s upper floors. 

**Hwz Bka?** Clint wrote as he made his way to the elevator.

 **Out of surgery** Steve wrote back. **We’re just waiting for her to be cleared by the PACU.**

 **Gd nz?** Clint wrote. He had no idea what ‘PACU’ meant but he didn’t want to make Steve do his acronym dictionary thing just to explain. 

**Soulmarks gone but she’s OK**

Clint winced. So, alive but soulmark-less. Just like her brother. He hoped she’d be okay with it when she woke up.

 **N my wy** he wrote, and stepped into the elevator. 

Steve texted him something back, but Clint had already put his phone into his pocket. He’d see Steve soon enough.

* * *

Natasha sat curled up on the love-seat in the waiting room with Steve and Bucky, waiting for news on when Becca would be moved to the ward room.

After their intense conversation earlier that day and learning that she was Clint’s soulmate, Steve had just, kind of adopted her. Even though she barely knew Bucky and Becca, Steve had insisted that she come upstairs to wait with them, saying that it was to make sure she was safe and warm until they could figure out a place for her to stay. 

Part of Natasha felt like she should just go, maybe crash in the emergency department like usual, or even leave the hospital altogether. Find somewhere else to stay that didn’t involve her being forced to trust these people that she didn’t really know. 

But another, clearly lazier part of her, was revelling in how safe and warm she felt hanging out with Clint’s friends. Bucky had even bought her a sandwich when he’d gotten himself some coffee and a chocolate bar a few minutes before, saying that he’d been raised better than to let someone go hungry when he was eating.

And she was hungry. She’d never gotten that breakfast that Clint had promised her. Because she’d run away.

Now, tucked up on the love-seat, flipping through an outdated fashion magazine, it was almost impossible for Natasha to remember why she’d run from Clint in the first place. She remembered it was because she was scared to trust him--scared that she’d be wrong about who she thought he was and therefore end up getting as badly hurt as she’d been in the group home. Where Brock had presented himself as one of the good guys, when he’d so clearly ended up being nothing like that. 

But Clint wasn’t Brock. He was nothing like that. He’d been only caring and kind since the moment she’d met him. 

And she was so, so tired of feeling unsafe and afraid, and alone. 

She glanced up across the small room, where Steve and Bucky had a love-seat of their own. Steve was leaning back, Bucky resting against his chest as Steve gently stroked his hair back from his forehead. Bucky’s eyes were closed, probably the most relaxed he’d been all day after the horrible events of that morning. Every once in a while Steve would lean forward and unselfconsciously kiss the back of Bucky’s head, or run his thumb down Bucky’s cheek, or make some other small gesture to make sure Bucky knew that he was loved. 

Steve and Bucky were soulmates. And Natasha wanted that so badly it hurt. 

Steve fished his phone out of his pocket. “Sam’s coming in tomorrow,” he said quietly to Bucky.

“He doesn’t have to,” Bucky murmured back. “It’s Christmas Eve.”

Steve smirked. “I think he likes you, jerk. He wants to make sure you’re okay.”

“Punk.” Bucky smiled without opening his eyes. 

Steve checked his phone again, and then glanced at Natasha. 

Instantly she sat up, her attention on the door.

* * *

It only took Clint walking around the floor twice before he found the small waiting room occupied by Bucky and Steve. 

And, he saw immediately as he pushed open the door, apparently his soulmate as well.

He came all the way into the room, his attention entirely focused on her. There was no reason for her to be there, none at all, and yet there she was. “Hi,” he said. It felt like his brain had shut down.

“Hi.” She smiled but she looked uneasy, like she was afraid of what he might do. 

“I’m so sorry,” he said taking a step closer to her. He kept his hands out, trying to look as unthreatening as possible. “I should never have touched—“

To his complete shock, she stepped into his arms and pressed her forehead against his neck. He felt his soulmarks flare with heat and he wrapped his arms around her. He held her as tightly as he dared, hope and confusion and _love_ pounding through him with every beat of his heart.

“I’m sorry I ran away,” she murmured against his chest. “I was scared—“

“It’s okay,” he replied before she could finish. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

She pulled back, just enough that she could look at him, her dark green eyes as intense as he’d remembered. “No, you don't understand,” she said. “It wasn’t you. It was _never_ you. It was something…some _one_ else.”

“It’s okay,” he said again. “You don’t need to explain—“

“His name was Brock,” she said as if he hadn’t spoken. “He was one of the boys at the second group home I was at. He liked to prey on the smaller girls. The weak ones. He’d pretend to be their friend, and then…” She took a deep breath and he could see tears gathering in her eyes. He opened his mouth to tell her to stop, that she never needed to tell him anything that caused her so much pain, but she kept going.

“I liked him.” Her voice was wavering as she spoke, but her gaze held his unfalteringly. “He was strong, and handsome, and I--I thought he was kind. So when he chose my friend Anya, I was thrilled for her. But then I found out…what he’d done to some of the other girls. How’d he’d tricked them until they’d… and then he’d leave them. And sometimes he’d hit them, too. To get his way.” 

Clint felt anger flame high inside him. He knew where this story was going, and already he’d cheerfully blow up a building if he thought that this guy Brock would be somewhere underneath. 

“What happened?” Clint asked, understanding now how important it was for her to tell him.

“I warned Anya,” she said. “So she broke it off with Brock before anything happened. So he came after me.”

She tightened her grip around him, and Clint pulled her closer, his eyes closed against the feeling of white hot rage and black despair that slammed him in the gut. “I’m so sorry,” he said. He’d never felt those words were so inadequate in his life. 

“He stabbed me,” she said against his chest. “He was drunk. And angry. And he stabbed me. In my abdomen. I couldn’t stop him. It bled—“ 

Clint stood with her in the middle of the tiny room, holding her while she cried her past out against his chest. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Bucky and Steve studiously ignoring them, attempting to give them what privacy they could through averted gazes. He stroked her hair, trying to convey his admiration for all she’d survived, and his regret that she’d ever had to. 

“I’m so sorry,” he said again, feeling his own tears burn against his eyelids. He didn’t know what else to say.

“It was never you,” she said after her tears had slowed. 

“I will never hurt you,” he said against her hair. “I swear to God.”

“I know,” she said. She moved back again so they could look at each other and she freed one hand to wipe at her eyes.

“I feel like I’ve been crying all day,” she said with a watery laugh. “I’m a mess.” 

“You’re beautiful,” he said, smiling when she huffed out a laugh. Gently, he wiped her cheek with his thumb. “What’s your name?”

“Natasha,” she said. “Natasha Romanov.”

He felt his smile grow broader. “Nice to meet you, Natasha.”

“Nice to meet you, too. Clint,” she said. “I’d really like to kiss you.” 

“I’d really like that,” he said, then bent his head so she could reach his mouth. 

Kissing her was amazing. Better than amazing. She tasted of tears and strength and something sweet and indescribable that he knew he’d recognize forever. The kiss was absolutely perfect until she moved to change angles and her cheekbone brushed against his nose.

“Jesus!” he swore, rearing back and cupping his nose in his hands. 

“Holy fuck!” Bucky said. “What the hell did you do to your face?”

* * *

Natasha slept with Clint in Sam’s bed that night. She wore his hoodie and he kept his sleep pants on, but they shared the same covers. 

END


End file.
